A Good Girl's BIKER Baby_A Forbidden Baby Romance

by Cherise West

  “C’mon, Tone, you know the meth-dealers down on Sherman did Quentin in,” Roadrat insists.

  “Who told you that? Billy Boy? Or that cop, Maretti, the one Billy Boy pays off every week to look the other way while Billy deals with gangs outside the club?” I respond, unfazed. Billy still grins. His enforcers sit close, muscling up, while the rest of the club chatters in angry whispers about the revelations.

  “You’re saying Billy had you arrested?” Donnie Z asks.

  “He set me up. Used my old Facebook account, the one I used for club business, to sucker a detective into fingering me for some kind of illegal deal. Called me and told me we were having a meeting at the deal location. They cuffed me as soon as they saw me. Greg Valence was absolutely dying to bring me in, and Billy knew it,” I announce.

  “I don’t know what they pumped your head full of in that jail cell, brother, but you’re telling better stories than I’ve ever heard you tell. Even more ridiculous than that story about how you lost your virginity,” Billy Boy guffaws, bringing levity to my brothers, who hope for a fleeting second this whole thing is a cruel joke. The look on my face quickly dispels that belief, and after a tense silence, the laughs die away.

  “You’re going to set up one brother, that’s your business. It’s a shitty thing to do, but from your twisted perspective, I understand it,” I dictate coldly. “You lie to all your brothers when they deserve to know the truth, and I can’t really forgive that.” After another tense silence, Billy’s composure finally cracks.

  “Yeah, alright, fuck it, I did it,” he shrugs, nonchalant about it. “I led you into that ambush. You’re fucking with the Wardogs way of life, Tony, and you knew it. That’s why you’ve been looking out behind you every step of the way, since the day you came back.”

  “You fucking framed the boss?” Wingman exclaims in disbelief. “You want us to trust you, Billy?”

  “Shut the fuck up, Wingman,” Butcher finally speaks, his voice domineering. “You gonna trust a rat like Tony St. James with the future of the Wardogs?”

  “Butcher and Pete, they’ve been with Billy since the beginning. Since he killed Quentin,” I say.

  “Why on earth would I kill Quentin Hill? My best friend?” Billy asks.

  “He never trusted you, and he never wanted you in charge of the Wardogs. You hated it, and when I was out of the picture, you killed him, hoping to sweep in and take the reins. I came back too quick and fucked up all your plans, didn’t I?” I taunt him.

  “You killed Big Man?” Scare asks. The crowd echoes the question, and a dozen others stirred up by our staredown.

  “Are you all really going to trust the words of a rat? He’s been singing to Jersey City PD since he came back to town,” Billy accuses. Knuckles tight, I fight that urge, the pistol in my waistband burning hot against my skin, begging me to blow him away. “How do you think he got out so fast? That prosecutor let him out. Set this whole thing up. She’s had it in for the Wardogs for years, and now she’s got an in, right here,” Billy gestures to me. I stare, rage building up like a crackling thunderhead.

  “Fuck you, Billy,” I snarl.

  “Which one of us did you give up first, Little Tony?” Billy needles at me.

  “Are you talking to the feds, boss?” Donnie Z expresses warily.

  “I’ve never even dreamed of turning on any of my brothers. Even Billy, the slimy fuck,” I spit out angrily. “Tonight’s made me reconsider that.”

  “What are you going to do?” Billy jibes at me. “Kill me?”

  “And betray a brother, like you did to Quentin? And to me? No,” I snipe. “I didn’t come here to kill you, or anyone. You’re scum, but you’re still my brother, and if the Wardogs are going to go to hell, they might as well have the man most hellbound as captain. I came here to tell you I’m out.” That’s all I have to say on the matter. I spin on my heels towards the door, the night air hitting me, freedom from the clubhouse’s stifling heat.

  “It’s that bitch, isn’t it? That prosecutor. I know about you two,” Billy taunts. “The Wardogs aren’t the only ones getting fucked by Tony St. James, though we’re the only one of the two gettin’ fucked over,” Billy sneers. I reflexively reach back to the handgun, fingering its grip. I want to kill him. For me, for Mara; for our baby. I should. But I can’t. I can’t risk losing everything - including her, and our child. She’s smart. And she’s right.

  “I’m out,” I repeat, pushing into the cold and slamming the door behind me. A commotion starts up immediately, roaring out from the clubhouse; a storm of accusations, of questions; brother turning on brother, bonds of trust shattered. It’s not what I wanted, but if Billy Boy takes hold of the MC I cherished, it’s guaranteed to be what they get - death, crime, hatred, and distrust. I hear the door burst open behind me, echoing footsteps clanking along the pavement, spurs jingling along with each step.

  “Just where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Billy Boy’s composure cracked, he follows along behind me.

  “I’m giving you what you want,” I toss back at him, throwing a leg over my bike and mounting up.

  “Boy, I raised you into this,” he protests, “I made you a Wardog. I made you, and you disrespect me like that in front of the boys? In front of your brothers?”

  “You’re lucky I still consider you one,” I spit at him, “because if I didn’t, I very well could have plugged you full of holes the first fucking minute I saw you in there. I’m out, and so is Mara. You leave her the fuck alone.”

  “So it is the prosecutor, isn’t it? What’d you do, knock her up?” he howls; the question burns anxiety into my heaving chest; I freeze for a second, but quickly pull on the throttle of my bike, hoping he simply made a lucky guess.

  “What do you want? You have the Wardogs now,” I snarl.

  “That’s not what Quentin wanted, and it’s not what the boys want. I MADE YOU,” Billy repeats in a rage.

  “You need a fall guy, and you’re not going to get one.”

  “Maybe you should remember what you said, boy,” Billy roars, “about being my brother. You’re still mine, too. You’re a WARDOG. When you bleed for the brothers, you become one for life. FOR LIFE,” he howls as I crank my bike to life. “Wardogs graduate at their funerals, boy. Your brothers need you, and you’re not leaving them.”

  “You need me, to take the heat for you. It’s what you planned all along, your contingency, in case Quentin knew enough to call me back before you offed him,” I scream back, over the sound of my motor. The club starts to tumble out of the doorway, and before he can make a spectacle of the exchange the way he wants, I twist the gas. “Billy Boy wants the Wardogs to die in a senseless war against the city that brought us all together, brothers. I can only hope some of you see through the bullshit.” With that pronouncement, I push off into the night. Glancing into my mirror, I see Billy rounding up his crew - my Wardogs, now mercenaries in his personal vendetta. Some of them disgruntled, all of them confused, they react like brothers to the one sign I know - the sway of the hand in the air Billy gives them. I know what it means.

  Wardogs, roll.

  Chapter 19

  My pacing worriedly wanders from the hall, to my bathroom; back to my the couch in my living room. I’ve sat anxious for so long I actually cleaned up the living room, no small feat given the mess of papers still scattered from weeks ago, the scent of Tony and I’s first night together clung to their crumpled surfaces. The digital displays on appliances in the kitchen tick away in the surprisingly cleaned entryway of my house. Everything tidied.

  Except for me. I’m a mess. I glance at the clock; three in the morning. It’s been hours since I fled Tony’s apartment; at least seven. I’ve lost track, the last day a confused blur of desire, loss, and rekindled feelings. And fear. Lots of fear. Fearing what might happen to Tony; what might have already happened. Fear about the child growing inside of me - the nausea doesn’t help, as much as I try to fight through it. I watch the window, translucent curtain
draped across my eye into the night, and each time I hear the rev of an engine or the roll and squeal of rubber on pavement, my heart stops. I see headlights flash through the window, muddled yellow, setting my nerves alight. Each squeaking tire could be him… or it could be Valence, pulling in to tell me about a shootout at the Wardogs clubhouse.

  Or, even worse, it could be Billy Boy, leading a fleet of gurgling chrome, ready to do to me what he’s wanted to do since I stepped into the prosecutor’s office.

  While seconds tick away my fear starts to consume me. Light-headed, not having slept a solid minute since the blissful nap with Tony, I imagine my day at the office on Monday. It won’t be too much long before the signs start to show to everyone - even Scott will start to glance up from his coffee and newspaper during meetings and hearings, noticing the weakness and the growing bump on my abdomen. The questions come up, and I’m not sure which would jeopardize me more - a single mother, who doesn’t know the father of her baby, or the revelation that I’ve fallen in love and am bearing a child with Tony… who might be dead after tonight. Falling onto the couch, my fingers cross over one another, fidgeting. I hear my breaths rising and falling each time I close my eyes and imagine what might befall me. Fingers tick with the sound of seconds wiling away. Another car rolls along and my nerves burn in fear. What if he never comes back? Even if they don’t hurt him, the Wardogs may convince him I’m scheming against him - and while we let our walls down together, I fear he may not truly trust me. He may never trust me.

  Worse yet… what if Billy has figured out the secret inside of me, and what danger it might pose to him?

  I have to push the thoughts away. Please, Mara. He’ll listen to you. He has to. He told you he cared about you now - about the baby. It meant something to him. Or did he lie to you? Is he the criminal that Billy Boy insisted he is - and not the man he confessed to be to me, today, when our lips met and our chests pressed tight together and he told me he wanted to make the Wardogs a force for good? You’re so stupid, Mara. You let a Wardog into your life, and he played you completely, like an automatic piano, lilting out whatever tune he wanted. You cooed into his ear and you told him how much you cared for him. He has you in the palm of his hands now. What are you going to do? Listen to more of his lies?

  No. He wouldn’t lie to you like that, Mara. He’s going to be the father of your child, now. Why would he lie? What does he have to gain? Think rationally. Don’t let your fear run away with you. It’s not like the first night anymore. You miss your mother, of course, Mara. But Tony didn’t have anything to do with that. He didn’t want it. He wants the Wardogs to be different. You’re overreacting to the tiniest thoughts, and to these long-held grudges.

  I fight with myself, and with each new terrifying thought that occurs to me, each new false revelation, I stand from the couch, pace to the kitchen; wanting the comforting, idle nothingness of domesticity to calm my raging inner conflict. I turn on the coffee pot as the clock starts to approach four in the morning. Filling it with grounds and water and following the same routines I’ve followed every morning like regimented clockwork, I wait impatiently, walking in tiny circles around the island-counter in my kitchen, listening to each gurgle and churn of hot water filtering through roasted grounds. I yawn. I’m not sure if I’m making the coffee to drink it, caffeine to keep me awake, or if I’m doing it because it’s something to pay attention to, to keep my mind off of how much of a mess my life might be after tonight; if Tony can’t stop himself from doing something disastrous to Billy Boy, or to the rest of his club. If he can’t cut himself free from that way of life; if he can’t ever see me as Mara Lewis, mother of his child and the woman who’s fallen in love with him, and not as another prosecutor who’s come to ruin his life and the lives of the only family he’s got.

  The chug of the coffee maker comes to a quiet halt. With brewing noises ended by a quiet electronic beep, I realize another fifteen minutes have passed. Another hour or so, and the sun will begin to crest across the horizon; the I’ll have to face the day not basking in cool morning dew and chirping songbirds, but with the grim realization that Tony might never be coming back. Hand shaking, I reach for a mug, hung from hooks beneath one of my scuffed white cabinets. A spoonful of sugar dumped at the bottom of the glass, my breath trembles; I tilt the coffee pot to the mouth of the mug, but the jitter of my wrists spills flecks of hot liquid onto my hand. I hiss at the stinging burn, nearly dropping the pot completely, the quick jerk of my hand away from the coffee accidentally knocking the mug off the counter, porcelain shards splaying across the kitchen tiles. I slam the pot back into the coffee maker, sobbing softly. I can try as much as I want, but the thoughts won’t stop.

  In one day, my whole life’s been turned upside-down. I don’t know who’s a bad guy anymore, and who’s on my side. In law school, it all seemed so obvious. Men in leather and patches, rumbling through town on bikes, filling our streets with drugs and guns - the Jersey City I knew, the one that Tony told me about. Now I have a man on a bike who said he wants to save me from this drowning sensation, and everything feels backwards.

  Four twenty in the morning. The couch swallows me; I nurse tiny, reddened spots burned across my hand. In trying to distract itself, my mind recalls the morning outside of my house - when a whole band of Wardogs rolled down my street, Billy Boy grinning with crooked teeth; how I dropped a mug in the driveway, coffee splattering across my leg. The Wardogs owe me two mugs, now. I giggle; it’s all I can do to stop from crying again.

  Getting drowsy. I’m not sure if it’s pregnancy, or just my nerves fraying themselves, worked up into a nervous frenzy, knowing that so much of tomorrow hinges on what happens before the sun comes up. If it comes up without Tony on my doorstep, I may never be able to face another tomorrow again. My eyes nod half-shut, my head growing heavy. Clothes hung hastily along my frame as I fled Tony’s apartment, my body withers, gangly from days of nausea and sleeplessness draining me of water and nutrition and everything, leaving me to look like a flu victim with the life squeezed out of her. Rubbing my knuckles to try to keep myself awake, the drowsiness clings to my eyes, and they fall further and further shut with each second. I don’t want to sleep, but my body protests. I fear the rising sun, the chirp of the birds - and if I sleep, and I wake to hearing them, I’ll know I woke too late. Still, it’s hard to resist something I feel I need so badly. If I just wait…

  VROOOOOM!

  I hear the rev and the roar of a Harley and I jump awake in a sweat, the sound now something that fills me with as much dread as it does hope. It could be Billy Boy and the gang, come to finish the job - the one they started while rolling through my neighborhood. I beg for it to be Tony, but there’s no telling. A headlight flashes faintly through the translucent curtain. Terror taps my brain; I could swear I hear the sound of a pack of bikes revving along with one another, and with the worst possible outcome racing towards my door, I panic. I can’t defend myself from one biker, much less a pack of them. I grasp at my stomach, nausea striking at the worst time, the baby inside reminding me I have more than just myself to protect. I shoot to my feet and immediately double over from the wrenching in my gut. I look for anything that could be a weapon, flashing back to that moment with my car’s ice scraper in hand, swinging wildly into the rain. How ridiculous I looked. And how Tony took care of me anyway.

  Thinking about Tony again, while a pack of his brothers come to finish me. For all I know he may be leading the crew, lured by the bonds of his brotherhood to turn on me. I struggle to the kitchen counter, grasping for a knife. Any of them. Pulling one from the block, in the darkness I can barely tell that I pulled out the bread carving knife. Good job, Mara.

  Suddenly, a headlight beams bright through my window; blindingly bright. My heart thuds hard. I wait for more… but none come. The engine rumbles and rumbles, and when it dies off, and the headlight flickers off, I squirm in dark silence, clutching the handle of the knife. Only one? Did the rumbling echoes of the engine bounc
e between neighborhood houses? Am I just so jumpy that I made many voices out of one? My stomach churns, and I can’t tell whether my pregnancy or my absolute terror at the storming footsteps approaching my door make it hurt worse.

  BANG BANG BANG BANG!

  Each fistful of anger pounded against my door makes me recoil. I stay deathly quiet, waiting for a voice. Waiting for some indication that I’m not about to open the door for Billy Boy, or Butcher, or Lefty Pete, or another psycho with a wad of cash in his pocket, paid to put a bullet in my head.

  BANG BANG BANG!

  Please. Say something. Say anything. Please. I clutch the knife tight, tighter than I’ve held on to anything in my whole life, tight enough that my nails score little dents into the plastic grip. My wrists jitter. Tears burn my cheeks, my eyes wide. Please. Say anything—

  BANG!

  “MARA!” I hear a shout from a man possessed - possessed by rage and by doubt. It’s Tony’s voice, but hearing anything in that moment paralyzes me. “Mara, open the door!” My mouth falls open, but I can’t make any noises. “Mara! Are you there?!” I hear him grouse, footsteps pacing along my porch. Is he alone? Is he here for me - and why? “Mara!” He roars again.

  “Wh-who is it?!” I respond, my voice cracking.

  “Wh-what do you mean, who is it?” Tony responds angrily. “You know who it is! Open up!”

  “Wh-what do you want?!” I demand, clutching the knife tightly. I don’t know that I can trust anyone in this moment. Not even Tony.

  “What— what do I want? Mara, what the hell is going on?!” he exclaims, banging on the door again.

  “Are you alone?” I shriek.

  “Alo— yes, of course I’m alone,” he sighs. “I’m… do you still not trust me?” I consider his question for a long moment. I guess not. I guess I don’t trust him. Guilt floods through my veins. Should I trust him? I feel like I should. He made himself vulnerable in front of me. He told me everything. But were they lies?